Until you beg for mercy twice
by Belle D'Arcy
Summary: She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi and beheaded. Or so everybody thought. This is the story of what really happened in Karachi. The Virgin and The Dominatrix. But this time Sherlock is in control. *Warning: This is probably strictly mature content but I'll risk it. Slight BDSM elements and quite a lot of staring. You have been WARNED!*


She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi and beheaded. Or so everybody thought. This is the story of what really happened in Karachi. The Virgin and The Dominatrix. But this time Sherlock is in control. *Warning: This is probably strictly mature content but I'll risk it. Slight BDSM elements and quite a lot of staring. You have been WARNED!*

Disclaimer: all characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC and/or their respective creators. Mine is only the imagination behind this one story.

Until you beg for mercy. Twice.

Irene had lost all hope. For months she had been running from country to country in a desperate attempt to avoid the unavoidable. They would find her, sooner or later. 'They' for her meant nothing less than 'every person I've ever pissed off'. She had been a bad girl, she had misbehaved all her life. Sometimes she wondered if she was still playing a game, or if she had become the game. She was not sure who she was anymore. At first, when she chose her profession all those years ago, 'dominatrix' had been something exotic, something to be proud of. And it was easy. She would just put on her blank, daring mask and pretend she knew what she was doing. Somehow it came naturally. There had been only one man who, just for a second, had seen behind it all. But for him, a second was ample. He was wrong, though. She wasn't in love with him. It wasn't love. She had never been attracted to the opposite sex. Yet, Sherlock had no sex. He was...something new; and 'new' was what she craved for, an escape from the dullness of her life. 'Catering to the whims of the pathetic,' that's what he had said. God, how she hated him for being right!

And now there she was, on her knees in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by her executioners. She could almost taste the smell of sea water. The night was dark and quiet and somehow it reminded her of that evening when they sat together by the fire – Sherlock, deep in his thoughts, not even aware of her presence, and her, calmly studying his face, trying to understand. 'I want him to know. He will understand, surely.' She begged to be allowed to send one text message before the end. The terrorists seemed indifferent; they didn't even care to ask whom she planned to text. 'They are so sure of themselves. They've obviously never read children's fairytales and don't know that the prince on the white horse always arrives at the last moment.' Irene tried to smile but her eyes were full of tears as she typed 'Goodbye Mr Holmes'.

And then in happened. Out of the blue there was this familiar, too familiar sound. She had recorded that for him, thinking of him. One of the very few times she didn't fake it. Suddenly there was hope. Fear, mixed with happiness, washed over her as Sherlock whispered 'When I say run, run!' Her knees were weak but she knew she will run. Almost in a trance she watched as he escaped surprised bullets and stabbed confused men. She had been right – the terrorists had never expected something like that. Once, long time ago, Irene had managed to catch Sherlock unawares; now he was returning the favour.

Next thing she remembered, she was in the passenger seat of that same jeep that had driven her to her execution. Sherlock was not in the mood for talking. 'I know where you live. We'll go there to pick your stuff and then I'll take you somewhere safer.' Irene just nodded, not sure if he could even see her. They were there presently. Sherlock raised an eyebrow when he saw the contents of Irene's luggage.

'You take your work everywhere with you, don't you?' he almost smiled.

'A girl has to eat. And since this is what I do best...'

'Is it?' The irony blinded her. She could've hit him but he quickly went on. 'Come, pack all that rubbish and let's get out of here.'

Irene didn't have a lot to pack. Some clothes, a bit of make-up and the tools of her trade. She felt a tinge of shame as she packed all her crops, dildos, whips and handcuffs. Sherlock didn't seem impressed. He kept looking out the window in case someone had followed them. Ten minutes later they were back in the car. Sherlock had substituted the cloak for his coat and gloves. They stopped in front of a small house that seemed almost deserted. 'A friend of mine used to live here. It will have to do for tonight.' He picked the bag and left Irene to follow tentatively. She was still not quite over the events of the night. That's why she panicked when he said:

'So, have a good night. I'll come at dawn tomorrow and see you escorted to a safe house.'

Irene felt her eyes water again.

'Please don't leave me. They can find me any second.'

Sherlock was standing near the door in the small room which contained nothing more than a bed, a chair by the window and a small nightstand with a lamp on it. He looked at Irene for a long moment, thinking. Then, with a sudden movement he was right next to her, slapping her hard on the cheek with the back of his gloved hand. Irene's breath caught in her throat and she stared at him. He stared back. He could see how her fear gradually disappeared. Then he slapped her again, this time even harder. Irene's eyes were full of tears but there was no trace of distress in them now. She seemed calm, tamed. 'Don't move,' Sherlock snapped and stepped back. Irene tried to obey but found herself unable to stand on her feet. She slowly collapsed on the edge of the bed. Without breaking the eye contact, Sherlock took his coat off and threw it on the chair by the window. He opened the bag and produced a crop. He looked at it for a moment and then was back at Irene's side. 'I said don't move.' The crop gently touched her chin and forced her to stand up. When she was on her feet, Sherlock slapped her with it and, withdrawing a couple of steps again, said: 'Take your clothes off.'

If Irene had been herself she would've found his command extraordinary. But his eyes on hers hypnotised her and she obeyed slowly, without hesitation. She stopped before taking off her underwear and tried to read Sherlock's expressionless face. She thought about sneaking a peak at the front of his trousers but it somehow didn't feel right. So she just stood there and awaited instructions.

'I said take off your clothes. Or are you self-conscious and modest now?'

And suddenly she was. She felt shame wash over her already flushed cheeks as she took her bra and knickers off. For the second time she was completely naked in front of that man but this time she had absolutely no control over the situation. Irene let out the breath she didn't realise she was holding. Now it all seemed so clear, so simple.

'Lie on your back and spread your legs,' came Sherlock's voice and she opened her eyes. She wasn't sure how much time had passed. It seemed like he had just been standing there, taking her all in. Now his eyes were back on hers but there was something different. The grey and blue of his irises had given way to the hopeless black pits that were his pupils. Irene knew she must be flattered but instead a tremble of fear made her step back and almost fall on the bed.

Sherlock bent down over the bag and took out two pairs of wrist and ankle cuffs which he used to secure her to the four corners of the bed. Then he flicked the light off. Now there was only the small lamp on the nightstand that radiated a soft golden glow. Sherlock took a candle from the bag and climbed in between Irene's legs. He sat on his heels and she saw him take something out of his trouser pocket. Then there was a click and the candle was alight.

'This is going to hurt. But you already know that, don't you.' It wasn't a question.

The first drop fell on her stomach. She had thought she knew what to expect but the pain, though lasting only a second, made her arch her back and tremble all over. And then he did it again and again. Every drop a little bit closer to one of her nipples. Soon her whole torso and arms were covered with small drops of red wax, cool now but pulling distinctly her skin. Irene was moaning with every drop that touched her skin. Her heart was racing and she desired nothing else but for Sherlock to touch her. 'Please. I beg you,' was all she could master.

And then Sherlock suddenly stopped, blew the candle out and jumped off the bed. Irene expected him to take his clothes off. The whole time he was fully clothed, his purple shirt reflecting the flicker of the candle flame. And, indeed, she saw him taking his shoes and socks off. But then he returned to the bag and took some more things out of it.

Here he was back between her legs, never for a second coming in contact with her aching body. 'You've never begged before, have you? You're not very good at it.' And he fell silent again. Irene saw a knife flash in his hand and cringed. Sherlock smiled smugly and put a gloved hand on her stomach. Though the touch was not direct Irene's breath arrested in her throat and she slowly relaxed as Sherlock lowered the knife to her skin and slowly removed that very first drop of wax with the tip of it. It only lasted a second and then his hand was gone. He continued peeling the candle wax off of her until the only red dots left were those on her nipples. Then he put the knife down and produced a tube of lube and a metal dildo with a plastic handle like a sword's. Irene recognised it instantly; it was her Mighty Merlin electro-conductive dagger dildo. Not touching the 'blade', Sherlock lubed it generously and attached the wires without flipping the switch. With the back of his other hand he spread Irene's legs further apart. Then with a sudden movement he raised himself to his knees and pulled the pillow from under her head. 'Lift your hips,' came his indifferent voice. Irene did as she was told and Sherlock put the pillow under her. Now he had better access to...everything. Irene couldn't see what he was doing but she felt the tip of the dildo brush against her anus opening. She looked up and met Sherlock's gaze. There was...curiosity in his eyes. Cold, heartless curiosity. 'Please,' she heard herself say. This time he didn't wait to be begged. With one swift movement he pushed the whole length of the dagger inside her. Irene screamed as the pain tore her in two. Then she slowly started to relax her muscles. Sherlock picked the knife again and proceeded to remove the last drops of wax from her nipples. He deliberately scratched her skin, almost cutting it. When he was done, he started rummaging around again, making sure his thighs came in constant contact with the handle of the dagger, pushing it lightly in different directions. He could feel Irene concentrating hard on the tiny movements, her muscles tightening around the dildo in a desperate attempt to feel more. He finally fixed his eyes on her again, holding a small lubed electro clamp in his hand. He attached it carefully to Irene's clitoris and turned the electricity on. A sudden blast of energy shot through her. He had ignored all the safety rules and switched directly to one of the highest settings. Irene arched her whole body, causing the handle of the dagger to lean against the bed, making the angle inside her uncomfortable. She was breathing hard, small moans escaping her lips with every gasp. Sherlock was still sitting on his heels, arms resting on his thighs, fingers touching, eyes fixed on Irene's face.

Irene's whole body was trembling now, every spasm stronger than the last. With one last effort she opened her eyes and caught Sherlock's gaze.

'Sherlock, I beg you.'

That was enough. Sherlock flicked the switch and the dagger inside her bottom came to life, sending her over the edge. Sherlock caught the handle and pushed it in hard, enjoying the sensation of her muscles contracting around it. He waited for the wave of pleasure to completely wash over her and then turned the electric toys off. Irene was completely spent. She managed to open her eyes and murmur a slurred 'Thank you.' Then she sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Sherlock watched her another moment and then, at last, a sign escaped his lips. He smiled faintly, climbed off the bed and put his socks and shoes back on. He uncuffed her carefully and left the room. He had done what he could for her. She'd have to clean up this mess by herself.


End file.
